


I Sowed the Seeds of Love

by momokame (idleton)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Canon Universe, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mysticism, Period Typical Attitudes, Politics, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29609415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idleton/pseuds/momokame
Summary: For in June there’s a red, red rose.And that’s the flower for me.No other flower I’ll touch,So all the world may plainly see,I loved that one flower too much.—This is a folk song of unknown origin. It’s pretty and sad, but also rather hopeful. Anyway I’ve ruined it and written a kill/fuck/marry story.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia), England/Japan (Hetalia), England/Portugal (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23
Collections: Short Stories Inspired By Music





	I Sowed the Seeds of Love

Arthur leapt from the bow of the ship, landing on bended knees and rising with practiced ease. He tossed his head back, running a hand though his hair. The frazzled strands groaned and knotted under his fingers, jarring where he had crudely trimmed it with his own pocket knife. Francis might even burst into tears at the sight — thoughts of his old enemy brought a humourless twitch to his mouth. The French fleet was no doubt close behind. Well, let them come, England was here first.

Behind him, marines disembarked and ship-hands began the tedious task of unloading their cargo. A party of haggard colonists struggled towards them. Help had come none too soon for the starving town, but come it did, and succour from their homeland already revived their hearts.

Arthur motioned for the company of marines to gather; they marched and lined themselves behind him with faultless discipline. He caressed the hilt of his sword idly, staring straight ahead. The pristine lands lay in shadow before him, impossibly tall pines looming over the faint sketches of his people’s outpost. He asked the foreign land its story. It answered him in garbled whispers and unknown tongues. It spoke of mountain peaks at the roof of the world, of endless deserts, and of rivers so mighty they would make the Nile seem a streamlet. Arthur grinned. Ah, but ye world that fell from legends, he replied, now England had descended upon thee.

—  
I sowed the seeds of love  
And I sowed them in the spring  
In April, May, and June likewise  
When the birds do sweetly sing.  
—

Arthur wiped his sword on the tattered cloth covering the body it had just slain. Around him, men tended to each other’s wounds and prodded at the dead with their bayonets. Some already began to set the half-crumpled huts ablaze, others were scavenging among the wreckage. A loud whistle sent every men alert at once. Arthur sprung up, grabbed his musket, and dashed in the direction of the call before anybody else could react.

‘Captain Kirkland, sir! There was someone in the tall grass. A human face, moving very fast, but it didn’t look like an Indian.’

Arthur nodded at the solider, who appeared nervous surrounded by untamed wilderness, as most of the company had grown to be. All save for him. He remembered perfectly the lightless canopies of his own childhood, back when it was him who was the shadow in the woods haunting the dreams of every Roman garrison. He motioned for his men to stand back and crept into the reeds alone, feeling the air for a telltale quavering.

For all his caution, he was the one caught unawares. One moment he was stalking a tremble of grass, and the next he was staring into a pair of eerie blue eyes. He started, raising his musket by instinct and pointing it squarely at the face peeping between tall stalks. The face did not even flinch, instead it came fully into his line of sight, followed by a tiny body dressed in a distinctively English tunic.

‘Hoo are you?’ the child, for it clearly was one, asked him with nothing but plain curiosity. Arthur stared at it. Probably a boy, though no more than a toddler at most. And definitely no Indian — he had pale skin, wide blue eyes, and hair like the finest gold. No, a European child, from his own colonies? Or the French? The Dutch? Arthur frowned, not lowering his weapon, something about the boy nagged at his subconscious.

‘I am with the garrison at Jamestown.’ he told the child. ‘Did you come from there? I don’t recall seeing you. What are you doing here, where is your family?’ he fired in rapid succession, belatedly realising that the little boy might be too young to understand.

‘I don’t have any.’ the boy answered slowly, as though tasting the words on his tongue. ‘Will you be mine? You look like me.’ 

Then Arthur understood. In his defence, it had been a very long time since he had felt it — if he ever had. The birth of another one of ‘them’, the coalescence of will and fate into something that took monstrous, concrete shape. Some great princes and their entire peoples searched in vain for such a manifestation, only to bitterly fail, their kingdoms and cities forgotten or absorbed into those favoured by destiny.

‘Look like me’, indeed, Arthur thought, lowering his musket at last. What did the appearance of this thing — this child mean? If it were a native, he ought to shoot it right now, to secure the future of his people on this hostile land. But like the child said, he looked like Arthur himself, could this mean they were sprung from the same stock, and there existed some link between them similar to those Arthur shared with Cai, with Alasdair, or even Seán?

Arthur had been silent for too long, and the child’s assured manner wavered under his stony regard. His lower lip puckered and he shifted uneasily on his feet, but the sky blue gaze held firm and bright on Arthur’s face, challenging him for an answer. Arthur smiled. He had always had a soft spot for brave boys.

‘My name is England.’ Arthur went to his knees before the child, one hand on his heart. ‘It would be a great honour to call you kin.’ he said with utmost solemnity.

The boy broke into a huge smile at this; he brought his hand to his breast in mimic of Arthur’s gesture, then frowned. ‘I have no name.’ he said after a distressed pause. ‘Can I be your brother if I don’t have one?’

Adorable. Arthur could not help the grin that split his face. ‘But you do. See, on my map, you are called America.’ he said, not knowing exactly how much of the unknown landmass the child represented, and he suspected neither did the little one.

‘America.’ the boy rolled the syllables slowly. ‘Did you give me that name?’

‘Alas, no. It’s the feminine form of a Latin name, meaning “ruler”. You were named after a cartographer, you see.’

‘But I’m not a girl.’ the boy frowned and began to lift up his tunic to prove his point. Arthur hastily stopped him.

‘It’s just how we are named, dear. Don’t worry about it. If you like, I could give you an informal name... Well, you need one to use with humans, anyway. Only those you choose should be allowed to know and remember your real identity — you comprehend?’

The boy - America - tilted his head and thought for a moment before nodding. Arthur was not so sure he understood, but America had more pressing interests. ‘What is yours?’ he asked.

‘Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.’ he told the child. ‘What would you like to be called? Do you have a preference?’

America shook his head.

‘Then... Alfred.’ Arthur said after a few moments of pondering. ‘The name of one of my greatest kings. He was important to me, and I remember him well.’

‘Alfred.’ America tried the name, his eyes wide. ‘Alfred. Alfred.’ he grew more excited with each repetition. ‘Will I be great too?’

Arthur laughed at the child’s enamoured expression. ‘I bet you will be.’ he said indulgently. ‘Alfred Jones. America. Honoured to meet you.’

Alfred’s blue eyes sparkled, and he flung himself at Arthur, knocking the older man backwards. Arthur winced at the shock shooting from his tailbone along his spine — apparently Alfred was a lot stronger than he looked. Nevertheless, he gathered the child into his arms and allowed himself an adoring smile.

—  
My garden was planted well  
With flowers everywhere  
But I had not the liberty to choose for myself  
The flower I loved so dear.  
—

‘My dear, you have to let me go.’ Arthur patted Alfred’s blond head as gently as he could. The fleet had been ready to sail for some time and the wind was turning, he had no time to tarry. Still, the tiny arms had his leg in an iron grip, betraying the child’s unfathomable strength along with his determination to keep Arthur at all cost.

‘Why can’t you stay? Why can’t I come with you?’ Alfred whined. Arthur sighed for what felt like the millionth time that day.

‘I told you, Alfred. My home needs me. Remember what I said about the other European nations? You’ve met France, and he’s bad enough, but he’s far from the only one.’

Alfred looked up at him, his big blue eyes swimming unabashedly with tears. ‘But I need you too! I love you, Arthur!’ he cried.

Arthur’s non-human heart trembled. For the past few summers he had come to dearly love this land and this boy, a part of England had taken root here and was never going to leave. Gently he pried Alfred’s fingers from his leg and held them between his own.

‘As do I, love, as do I. You don’t know how difficult it is to leave this blissful cocoon behind and brave the storms of Europe. I will return, I promise. In the meantime, could I trust you to look after our people in my stead?’

It was the word that convinced Alfred, ‘our people’. He nodded, wiping his eyes furiously. Love and pride swelled in Arthur, he felt invincible; he could take on the whole world, he felt, and come back to this joy.

—  
The gardener he stood by  
And I asked him to choose for me  
He chose me the violet, the lily, and the pink  
But those I refuse all three.  
—

Afonso’ courtyard was covered almost entirely in purple petals. White walls and orange roofs gleamed in the fading dusk, in tune with the chiming of church bells. A warm, drowsy Mediterranean breeze caressed Arthur’s cheeks as he leaned back against his old friend.

‘Cheers to your victory, Afonso.’ he raised his cup in a languid toast. It was a magnificent piece of glasswork in the Roman style, lined with delicate golden swirls. The wine, of course, came from Afonso’s personal vineyard. The supper - exquisitely flavoured with spices from all the corners of his vast empire.

And the company was excellent. Afonso wore decadent charm like a second skin, his easygoing nature coming from the very air of his pleasant country. Arthur knew Francis secretly envied the effortless way Afonso carried his charisma. He smirked at the thought.

‘It is yours as well, xodó.’ Afonso replied with an easy smile. ‘Thanks to you, I am free again from Antonio. Let no one ever speak of the “Iberian Union” again. Ah! It sends me shivers.’

He tossed back the remainder of his wine in one elegant swoop. Then, in the same smooth movement, he curled his sinuous body over Arthur’s, one arm drawing over Arthur’s waist, the other deposited his cup on the garden table.

It made a soft clink, which Arthur faintly registered over the whispers of Afonso’s warm breath, and the way his hand danced over Arthur’s thin tunic. Mediterranean nights had always been warm, too warm. Arthur’s lips yielded under the gentle press of Afonso’s. The mingled taste of sweet wine, salty wind, and easy affection was heady.

They parted as easily as they had come together. Afonso flicked his tongue for a final taste of Arthur’s smile before drawing back with one of his own. The warm hazel eyes flickered to the top of Arthur’s head. Afonso chuckled and drew his hand: a petal of pale violet fluttered from his fingers to the ground.

‘Do you like these, Arthur?’ he asked, not straying far from Arthur’s lips. ‘Jacarandas. I found them in the New World.’

It was strange, how strong the boy’s hold on him was, such that the mere mention of his side of the globe brought Arthur’s mind there immediately. The cosy, gentle Iberian wind fell away to memories of endless blue skies, of howling snowstorms, of Alfred’s laughter. He frowned, first Cromwell, then more wars with France and Spain, and finally coming to Afonso’s help in the struggle to restore the Portuguese crown; he had scantly had enough time to breathe until now, let alone sailing halfway across the world.

‘I haven’t had the chance to visit my own colonies.’ he told Afonso, who smiled serenely and did not press Arthur on his conflicted expression.

‘Mm. I suppose you will have to, soon. I wish our colonies weren’t so far apart. We could sail together, you and I. It would be just like the old times, when neither of us knew what lay beyond the western seas.’ Afonso commented in that dreamy manner of his, though there might have been something sharp and serious in the tone. Arthur was not sure. He did not ask.

‘Well. I wouldn’t mind a bit of “sailing” before I go.’ Arthur replied, flinging one leg across Afonso’s hip in a way that Francis would have called artless. Afonso only laughed airily, hiding his face in the crook of Arthur’s neck.

—  
The violet I forsook  
Because it fades so soon  
The pink and the lily I did overlook  
And vowed I’d stop till June.

For in June there’s a red, red rose  
And that’s the flower for me  
And often I plucked at the red rose bush  
Till I gained the willow tree.  
—

‘They are Americans now, Arthur, not subjects of the crown. You have no right to treat my people like this.’ the child declared, glaring down at Arthur. Such brave words, for one whose grip on his musket was white-knuckled and faintly trembling, Arthur noted detachedly.

‘The King had declared the entire rebel force to be guilty of treason, for which the standard punishment is immediate execution. We are already showing clemency.’ Arthur rejoined, crossing one leg over the other. He leaned back on his chair, as though the powder keg tension in the parley tent did not bother him one bit.

‘We are not traitors!’ Alfred retorted hotly. Such a child, Arthur chuckled to himself.

‘Tell you what. I will make you a favourable deal, for old times’ sake. Six thousand British and Loyalist prisoners of war in exchange for the entire contents of HMS Jersey.’

‘You know that is impossible.’ Alfred cried; he put forward half a step. Arthur’s own men immediately responded - two swords drawn with lightning precision, blocking Alfred’s path. The boy stared at Arthur, his face flushed, his breathing ragged, and there was something like agony in the blue, blue eyes. ‘Arthur’ - he tried, ‘if they are your people too, then free them, or at least put them into better conditions. They cannot go on like this, cramped like rats in the bowels of a sinking ship.’

‘Ah, so that’s what Washington’s designs are, isn’t it? To drain our resources further in this already expensive war? Well, dearest Alfred.’ He smirked, hooking his hands under one leg. ‘He could either send us funds to house them, or agree to the exchange. But he won’t, and you know why. British veterans are worth infinitely more than your ragtag American brutes.’

The blue eyes burned. Arthur met them evenly. Abruptly Alfred turned on his heels and began stalking out of the tent. He paused with one hand on the flap; without looking back, he gritted out: ‘I take that back.’ Arthur hummed in question, but did not rise or speak. ‘I take it back. They are not your people. At all. Not even the Loyalists. They are mine. And we will be rid of you, even if every single one of us died for it.’ He left.

Arthur jerked his eyes from the gaping entrance of the tent. The boy had nearly ripped it apart with his bare hands. Arthur’s men approached the spot to fix it, but he dismissed all of them with a distracted wave and went to do it himself. Once done, he drew it tight and sat himself down at his makeshift desk.

He tried to pick up his pen to compose a missive, but his hand knocked over the ink pot, so hard was it shaking.

—  
The gardener he stood by  
And told me to take great care  
For into the middle of the red rose bush  
There grows a sharp thorn there.  
—

Kiku sat a proper three feet apart from him, nursing his own tea. A storm of cherry blossoms danced for them, the pink petals leapt and spun in mid-air like tiny ballerinas. The full moon was bright and lonely - no star came out of the clouds to join it; its own quavering reflection in the koi pond was its only companion. Japan truly was a poet’s heaven, Arthur thought with some amusement.

‘I like this tea, Arthur-san. Mixing dried rose buds with the first harvest was a good idea. It brought something exciting and luxurious to the scent, yet the delicate taste of green tea is wholly untouched.’ Kiku commented in that quiet, deliberate voice of his. The way he said ‘exciting’ with such an even tone brought a smile to Arthur’s lips.

‘And I must thank you for the haiku selection you sent me, Kiku. I confess myself quite taken in by the simple elegance of your poets. They needed neither elaborate rhyming schemes nor flowery prose to craft beauty. I wish my Japanese were good enough to fully enjoy the original, though I’m afraid I had not made much progress with kanji.’ Arthur replied just as quietly. This was how they worked, an exchange of mutual interests and respect. It had suited both of them fine.

They sat in companionable silence, watching the blossoms’ moonlit dance. The murmur of Kiku’s growing industrial might hummed in the distance, an incongruous background track to an otherwise pleasingly old-fashioned play.

When the moon was at its highest, Kiku turned to him.

‘This... Washington Conference has lofty ambitions. Alfred must be very sure of success, to invite so many great powers to come to his table like this.’ he said without preamble, still in that quiet and even tone.

‘Peace is a lofty ambition.’ Arthur agreed without looking at him.

‘I see.’ Kiku said. Then, after a long pause: ‘How are things with Alfred-san?’

Arthur was not startled by the non-sequitur, just as Kiku was not surprised by his lack of defence for the Anglo-Japanese Alliance, when they all met in Paris at the conclusion of that ghastly war. If that war taught them anything, it was the hopelessness of peace.

‘Fine, I suppose. The boy has grown too quickly, and I dare say he fancies himself with some destiny above us all. He is too cocky, I am not going anywhere yet.’

Kiku hummed in agreement. ‘I’ve always admired your navy so. I should miss seeing blue uniforms mingled with white. Well, we all make our choices.’

‘Or we think we do.’ Arthur murmured, looking squarely at Kiku for the first time that night.

Japan and his people did not typically approve of direct stares, but just for this time, Kiku met his eyes steadily. The quiet longing touched with the faintest hint of disappointment in those dark, normally impassive eyes forced Arthur to lower his own gaze.

—  
I told him I’d take no care  
Till I had felt the smart  
And I oftentimes plucked at the red rose bush  
Til it pierced me to the heart.  
—

‘Marry me.’

Arthur looked up from his perusal of the intelligence report, for a while not comprehending what Francis had just said. When he did, he almost started out of his chair. He checked himself and threw the Frenchman a scowl. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, frog, we are in deep shit here. I at least have no time for tasteless jokes.’

Francis did not reply, and instead gazed at him, something unfathomable in his deep blue eyes. Arthur scowled again and went back to his report. A fluttering movement, a couple of footsteps, and Francis’ annoying face swam back into his vision. The man was on one knee facing Arthur, drawing Arthur’s hands into his.

‘That’s just it, Arthur. We are, as your Shakespeare would say, “in deep shit”. It is a tragedy.’ Francis said, his facetious words at odds with the solemn look on his face. ‘We, the greatest powers of Europe — at the whim and mercy of a mere child, who fancied himself judge and jury of the entire world! No, my dear, he thinks he can dictate what we do in Egypt. And perhaps he could to either of us, but not both of us together. Together we will be stronger than him, you and I.’

Arthur frowned. ‘Alfred is our ally, Francis. I’m sure, if we could just explain to him the logic and reason behind keeping Suez under our control, he would readily help us, or at least step aside.’

The gentle-featured Gallic face twisted in an anger as sudden as it was ferocious. ‘Explain to him! Prostrate at his feet! Beg for scraps from his table! What else haven’t we done, Arthur? How low are we going to stoop this time? Non— my people built the canal, it is rightfully ours. What right does the brat have to tell me what I can and cannot do?!’

‘The same he does for me.’ Arthur rejoined drily. ‘The right of one who holds the purse strings. We are quite literally at his mercy, you comprehend.’

‘Vraiment! And what does your pride say to that, my beloved menace?’ Francis cried, almost wringing Arthur’s hands. ‘Where is my splendid god of war, my dearest enemy?’

‘Dead by debt.’ Arthur quipped. ‘Face it, Francis. We are on our way out. Even Rome fell, remember? And he was tall, so tall.’

‘Nonsense! Not with us together, Arthur, and you know it. Marry me.’ Francis repeated.

Arthur hung his head, suddenly very tired. ‘It would not change anything, Francis. My dear Francis.’ he said softly. ‘And anyway, I would not marry for such a reason.’

If he had thought that statement might finally convince the other man about the folly of his idea, he could not be further from the mark. Francis rose from his ridiculous kneeling position, drawing Arthur with him as he did.

‘Then what reason would meet with your approval, mon cher?’ he asked, leaning forwards to rest his forehead against Arthur’s. ‘Whatever it is you need, I have it ready to give. Shared interests? Companionship? Trust? Passion? And even... love.’

Arthur drew back, startled. ‘You don’t love me, Francis.’ he said, looking into blue eyes so dark they matched the evening sky outside.

‘I don’t love you the way star-crossed lovers do in pretty tales, no.’ Francis agreed. ‘How I wish we could. Such a pretty pair we would make, don’t you think? Two romantic hearts entwined forever in some tragic love story! But non, we are not humans. Yet I know now, I know now after a thousand years, that if the sort of thing we are could feel love, then it it is love I have for you, my Albion.’

Arthur listened to Francis’ little speech through a daze. He blinked, the tiny decent part of his brain told him such a confession warranted at least a clear answer. But he had none to give. He only stared back at Francis rather stupidly.

Francis sighed, closing his eyes wearily. ‘Ah, but I am a fool, an imbecile. I waited too long, and you had already given your heart to another.’

Arthur flinched violently out of his grasp. He spun around to escape Francis’ eyes, but the other man did not let him.

‘You deny it, mon cher? But I see it clearly in your eyes. You tried to fight it, only to be thoroughly beaten, correct? And now you, the shadow of the British Empire, lay at his feet, hoping for a scrap of his affection, when he had the time and fancy to remember you between bouts of pissing contests with Ivan.’

Arthur swung one arm, only to have it caught in Francis’ grip. The Frenchman smiled grimly at him, before doubling over with a pained gasp. Arthur grinned, feeling a sort of savage satisfaction he had not felt since wars stopped being fought with sticks. He had not a single moment to relish his victory, before Francis pulled at his ankles, bringing him tumbling down. The two world powers grappled with each other like children on Francis’ fluffy rug.

Once Arthur managed to sit up, he was dimly aware of the sharp pain coursing through his back and the pulsing of his knee. He would probably be walking funny for a while yet. He wondered what Alfred would think, if he noticed. He shook the boy from his mind, focusing on his own laboured breathing.

Francis leaned back with a heavy groan. ‘You’re getting old, Albion.’ he said, ‘that didn’t hurt nearly as bad as Agincourt.’ Arthur grinned despite his mood.

France was there, as he always had been, and he asked England: ‘So, no chance for that marriage then?’. A hitched laugh was his only answer.

—  
A posy of hyssop I’ll make  
No other flower I’ll touch  
That all the world may plainly see  
I loved one flower too much.  
—

Visitors did not typically come to this sleepy Yorkshire village, it was judged too sleepy even for middle-aged English ladies, who otherwise coo’d and gushed at anything that could be stretched to fit the word ‘quaint’. But here he was, sticking out like a sore thumb from his actions as much as his appearance — and that he had in spades, over six feet tall, broad shoulders, a ludicrously built physique and radiating presence. His tanned skin and sunny hair shone like a second sun in the grey day.

He had been pacing back and forth, up and down in front of the small cottage at the edge of the village. Rose House, it was informally called, since it had the most beautiful rose garden any of them had ever seen, the flowers bloomed almost magically despite the lack of sunshine. Nobody could quite remember who lived there, which was odd for a village of their size, but none could explain why that was the case.

Presently the attractive young man came to a stop in front of Rose House, squared his shoulders, puffed his cheeks, tore off his sunglasses to reveal startlingly blue eyes, and stalked through the gates towards the ancient-looking door.

As he walked he seemed to remember something. Hastily he pulled an extremely withered red rose from his bomber jacket, its squished petals drooped in shame before the dazzling display of its brethren in the garden. The man cursed and shook it, as though trying to revive the poor flower with only his will. It did not respond. He swore at it again, fumbled with a pair of wired frames, jammed them onto his face, wiped that hand on his jeans, exchanged the wilted rose with the other hand, and made to knock.

The door swung open before his fingers met it.

**Author's Note:**

> \- I badly need critique. I don’t write much and so don’t have an intuition for what’s good, what’s too cringe, what doesn’t make sense. Throw me comments, criticisms — Too purple? Weird dialogue? Bad pacing?  
> \- The song is ‘I sowed the seeds of love’. Being a folk song it has many versions, here is [one](https://youtu.be/3aaLDxwfuPc)  
> \- Cai: Wales, Alasdair: Scotland, Séan: Ireland, Afonso: Portugal. Sorry for the stereotypical names...  
> \- England came to Portugal’s help in the Restoration War with Spain in the 17th century. There was never a unified Iberian state again.  
> \- POWs were needless to say treated pretty badly in the 18th century. I read about British prison ships in the American war of independence on Wikipedia. Sorry, I don’t actually know much US history...  
> \- Britain sacrificed the Anglo-Japanese alliance in favour of closer ties with America, who was deeply mistrustful of Japan in the early 20th century. The callous demise of this alliance was noted as one of the factors driving Japan into WWII.  
> \- The Suez crisis marked the end of Britain and French’s global power projection. The two European powers sought to keep the Suez Canal under their control, only to be rebuffed by the US. Parts of their government discussed the idea of an Anglo-French union, but it was ultimately shelved as unsalable to the public.


End file.
